


that one where sam cuts his hair

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Gender Roles, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, Haircuts, Hurt Sam Winchester, I'm Sorry, M/M, Sexual Tension, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6526498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The elixir wears off and Dean finally begins to understand.</p>
<p>(aka, dean never knew just how much sam hated his body -- but he does now.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	that one where sam cuts his hair

It wears off while they're sleeping. They're still naked, buried under the blankets even though they both reek of old sex and dried-on sweat. Dean's spooning Sam, their hands laced together on Sam's stomach, and Dean thinks maybe they're having an earthquake as he's jolted from sleep by shaking. 

"Sam?" he asks, half to make sure Sam's awake as well, half to make sure Sam's okay. When there's no response, Dean opens his eyes, says, "Sweetheart?" as his vision adjusts to the dark. Nothing else is shaking or rattling, it's just -- it's just Sam. 

Dean's heart skips a beat; he sits up, puts one hand on Sam's shoulder, tries to roll Sam over. 

"Don't," Sam snaps, her voice shaking just as much as her body's shuddering. "Don't touch me." 

Dean flinches, nearly falls off the bed with how fast he scoots back, away from her. It's the first time Sam's ever -- Sam's never said that to him before, not _once_ , and Dean's relieved because, fuck, hearing it hurts. "Are you -- Sam, what's going on? Are you sick? Should I call an ambulance?" 

Sam sobs and Dean needs to rub his eyes because he swears he just saw Sam grow, like, visibly _get taller_ right in front of him. 

The elixir. It's wearing off. That must be it. 

"I'm fine," Sam says. Dean wants to argue with how much of a lie that is but he doesn't, just bites his tongue until his mouth fills with the taste of copper and rust. 

He can see Sam spread out, the sense that there's more of Sam around her body than what he can see until it fills in with skin, broad shoulders, longer legs, shorter hair. Sam stops shivering as soon as it seems to stop but he doesn't turn over, doesn't give any sign that he wants or needs Dean right now. Sam curls in on himself, body still wracked with heaving breath and sobs, long shuddering inhales and wet, rasping exhales. 

Dean reaches out a hand, lets it hover over Sam but pulls back, asks, "Sam?" instead.

Sam rolls out of bed, taking the sheet with him, wrapped around him, and goes to the bathroom. The door slams, locks, and Dean could pick the lock, probably should, but Sam clearly wants to be alone and Dean's the one who did this in the first place, if anyone should be suffering, it's not Sam -- so if this is what Sam wants, Dean will just have to deal with it. He grabs the comforter, settles down in front of the bathroom door, leans against it, and closes his eyes, praying to a god he doesn't believe in that this gambit hasn't just spectacularly backfired in his face. 

\--

He wakes up in the morning with a crick in his neck. Dean groans, opens his eyes and it takes a couple seconds to remember why he's sleeping on the floor. Dean sits up, groans again as his neck, shoulders, and back all pop, and looks in the bathroom -- in. The door's open, there's no one inside, but there's something sticking out of the garbage can. Dean stands, stretches, and feels like the scum of the earth when he sees: Sam's cut his hair. Inches of it, judging by the mess in the garbage. 

He turns, takes the room in at a glance. No Sam, but the weapons and clothes are still here, so's his laptop. Dean hopes that Sam's making the breakfast run and decides to get in the shower, get clean and ready to face whatever's going to be waiting for him when comes out. 

\--

Sam doesn't come back until mid-afternoon. He unlocks the door and steps inside, doesn't meet Dean's eyes. Dean takes his brother in: bloodshot, tear-tired eyes, a pale tinge to his skin, bite-ragged lips, hair that's just barely below his ears. Sam's wearing jeans, a t-shirt, boots. Yesterday she had bright, hooker-red polish on her nails; today Sam's nails are scrubbed clean and bitten down. 

"Found a new case," Sam says, gathering up his stuff, putting anything and everything feminine into a separate plastic bag that he ties off and dumps in the garbage when he's done. "Dean. Come on, new case, let's go." 

"Not until you tell me -- anything," Dean says. "Where you were, how you're doing," and he pauses before adding, gently, "why you don't wanna bring anything along?"

Sam heads for the door, doesn't look at Dean as he says, "I'm fine. Can we go now?" 

He leaves the door open and Dean can only watch as Sam drops his duffel by the trunk, sits on the car, hunches in on himself and turns his face up to the sun like it might dry out an ocean of tears he's already cried. 

Even when Sam's miserable, he's still the most gorgeous thing Dean's ever seen. 

\--

They very pointedly don't talk about it. They also don't have sex for six days -- not the longest they've gone without since Sam came back on the road, but every time Dean reaches for Sam, Sam flinches. Every time Dean touches Sam, Sam stiffens up, all his muscles, and his cheeks go pale while his throat works convulsively like it's trying to hold back vomit. Every time Dean makes a suggestive comment, or leers, or gives Sam's body an appreciative up-and-down look, Sam turns his head, turns away. 

It's when they finish the case, a close one for both of them, a little too much blood on the outside of their bodies, that they fuck, right in the woods. Dean's desperate to get his hands on Sam, to make sure Sam's okay, to feel the fall-and-rise of his lungs and the beating of his heart. Dean comes inside of Sam and they stand there, Sam leaning against a tree, Dean leaning against his brother, until Dean catches his breath. He presses a tiny, biting kiss to Sam's neck as he pulls out, stumbles a little as he's putting on his jeans. Sam hasn't moved. 

"Dude, you wanna get your ass chewed up by mosquitoes?" Dean asks. "Come on, let's get dressed and get out of here. We gotta get back to the room and get cleaned up." 

Sam's jeans are too far away to bend down and pick them up from where Sam's standing, and Dean's pretty sure that's the only reason Sam turns, lets Dean see Sam's half-hard cock and realise that Sam never came. 

Dean blinks; that's never happened before, especially after a hunt, when the sex is life-affirming, fast and frantic and full of desperate need and reassurance. "You want me to blow you?" he asks.

"No," Sam says. "I'm fine." 

Seems to Dean like Sam is not fine, not at all, not even a little, but Sam's the one who's always driven this thing, the one who's always pushed at every boundary Dean's set, so Dean just says, "Right," as Sam gets dressed. 

\--

They get patched up and head out to a bar. Dean drinks more than he probably should; Sam nurses the same bottle of beer all night. Afterwards, back at the motel, when they're in bed, Dean starts mouthing at Sam's shoulder. He reaches for Sam's dick but before his hand can make contact, Sam bats it away, rolls so he's on his stomach. 

"Fuck me, if you want," he says, face smooshed into the pillow, words quiet, barely a murmur.

"Only if you wanna, sweetheart," Dean says. 

Sam's whole body reacts to the name like he's been kicked by a horse in the gut. He doesn't move, though, doesn't do anything except swallow and then spread his legs. "C'mon and fuck me, idiot," Sam says, voice stronger this time, words more solid. 

Dean's happy to do as directed and he's sliding into Sam after a long, thorough stretching and plenty of lube, bottoming out with a groaned, "Fuck, sweetheart. God, you're so good, so perfect." 

He fucks Sam slow and gentle, hands set on Sam's back, fingers spread over those wide, lush acres of skin, and he leans down, murmurs endearments, whispers praise, all the things he'd never say except he's drunk and fucking the person he loves most in the world, the person who _is_ his world. 

He's not sure how long he goes for, how much he can blame on the booze, but he does orgasm, eventually, and lets his body fall on Sam's, covers Sam, plays with the shorn edges of Sam's hair. 

"Why'd you cut it?" Dean asks, voice sluggish with alcohol and sex. "Looked so good b'fore. Miss the long hair, sweetheart." 

"Don't -- can you not call me that," Sam says, quiet, sounds wrecked and not in a good way. "Just for a little while. Please." 

Dean slides off his brother, confusion and fear clearing the haze from his mind, and rolls Sam over. Sam goes with it, that's the only way Dean could ever move Sam, and Dean doesn't know where to start: the fact that Sam's dick is completely flaccid with no sign that he ever reached climax or the way Sam's looking at a spot on Dean's forehead, avoiding his eyes, while his lips tremble just a little. 

"Sam, what --" Dean says, so bewildered that he stops right there, has no words for the way his throat has suddenly grown dry, the way his heart's starting to pound in the face of approaching horror. 

Sam doesn't say anything, just turns, slides near to the edge of the bed, the line of his shoulders drawn and tense. "I'm fine," he says. Sam's on his side; Dean has a horrible feeling he knows what's going on. Dean reaches out, aiming for Sam's cock, and Sam stops him before he's anywhere close, one hand caught around Dean's wrist, holding tight enough that Dean has to grit his teeth as his bones grind. "Don't," Sam says. 

Dean pulls his hand back, enough that Sam lets go of him. "Dude, you gotta give me something," he says, practically pleading for an explanation, a hint, a fucking word that might shed some light on this sudden change of -- change. Oh. _Oh_. "Sam, do you think -- you know I -- it doesn't matter what kinda junk you have between your legs, okay?" 

"It does to me," Sam says, words ringing with finality. 

\--

Sam doesn't let Dean touch his dick for nine weeks.


End file.
